On night waking and attachment

It took over 30 minutes to walk to the bakery.

Ada woke me up at 2:30 asking me to fix her star. Bleary eyed and confused I followed her into her room where the lights were on and every toy was on the floor, along with most of her bedding. I looked at the clock in her room. What is happening?

I quickly pieced it together that it was, in fact, the middle of the night and told her the star would have to wait, as would combing her princess' hair, finding Yellow Pony and any other play-related request. A meltdown ensued as she semi-obediently climbed into bed and told me in no uncertain terms that, "I am so, so, 'specially sad, Mama." Truly the cruelest part of toddlers is how expressive and naughty they are all at once.

I fed a now wide-awake Olive (we moved her into Ada's room—now "The girl's room"—about 2 weeks ago and it's been smooth transition, gratefully) and 20 minutes later climbed back into bed with Mike. Only seconds later we heard the rattle of the shape sorter in the other room and Mike jumped up and took it from there. Bless him.

Liv woke up at 5 til 6, was alert and happy as can be and I wondered why on a night that I went to sleep at 10:30 I still felt so tired. I brought her in bed with me and she kicked and cooed and batted at my face until she drifted off for a bit around 6:30. That only lasted 15 minutes or so and she was up again, chatty as can be. She's such a smiley little thing. All I have to do is look away for a few seconds and then meet her eyes again and she gets all crinkly-eyed and gummy. She's a real happy baby. I finally feel like her mother, and not just her sustainer. Our relationship is blossoming into one that's based in smiles and loving interactions and not just the daily tasks of keeping her alive. It has been a huge blessing and helped me keep my guilt at not "bonding" with her as much at bay. I've always had a visceral, instinctual bond with her, but now I giggle with her and look forward to our interactions. She's my Liv. I know her. And I feel true to myself when I say that I love being her mother.

I've expressed it here before, but I can't get over how different mothering my second child is. People said I'd be able to enjoy it a lot more; that I'd be less worried about every little thing and the hard stuff would come more naturally to me. And that's mostly been true. But I enjoyed struggling and overcoming (nursing) with Ada. I felt like we were a team. I was in raptures over every expression. I would sing to her endlessly, talk to her endlessly. And with a second I spent more time away from her than with her. I nurse her while getting out a project for Ada or picking up breakfast. As soon as she's content, to the floor she goes so I can get to one of the other 10 things that either need my attention or are half finished (completing a single task start-to-finish in one sitting has become a major accomplishment). I felt distracted and unable to do it all. I had to consciously make time to sit and smile with her.

But something has changed in the last few weeks. Maybe Ada is less needy and understands that a new little person at our house does nothing to displace her or our affection for her. Maybe I am just out of the postpartum fog. Maybe Liv's new-found voice and near-constant smile are to blame. Not sure, but whatever the case, I feel so much love and attachment to Olive that sometimes I have to catch my breath. In the same way I can't wait for Mike to get home from work so I can relate 100 anecdotes about Ada from the day, I look forward to getting him close so we can watch our second baby bloom. You can't fully relate expressions. You have to experience them to feel it from head to toe. Olive makes me want to smother her in kisses.

Right now, in this moment, motherhood is so good.

Tummy time is always (usually) and group effort. Ada always feels quite proud of herself.

This probably put Liv at risk of mauling and drowning. But I'm pleased to report no baby was harming in the making of this photo.

This is mine

I just spent 15 minutes nursing Liv on my left, and using my right arm to tickle Ada's back as she fell asleep. It was one of those moments where I looked down and saw a pair of tiny feet perched on a little back and framed by two toddler hands and thought, "This is my life?! This is my life. This is my life."

It's always a blur of disbelief and gratitude.

Ada and I spent time this afternoon watching her monthly videos. I spent time wiping tears, especially while watching the month before we left for Italy and seeing images of our first month there. It was another flash of, "This is my life?"

The past 2 years have been incredible in about a million ways.

So has the past month.

I've been continually impressed with how different a second child is. Maybe it's that I worry less, or have less time, or have less attention, or this baby is just requires different stuff of me, but I feel like I've only spent a fraction of the time tracing her profile and watching her sleep faces that I did with Ada. It's not that I love her any less, or find her any less incredible, but the newness of loving a being I created is not as new anymore. Not that it's old hat either. It just is. After I had Ada I remember feeling my heart change. And maybe it just needed one initiation into becoming a mother-heart; just one maturation before it was ready for children-plural, and not just child-one. Maybe it doesn't need to shed something else or grow another size to fit another tiny human inside. Maybe what I'm trying to say is that number two just feels more natural.

That's the craziest thing to me: I'm a mother of two. An exceptionally young mother of two. But I'm doing it. And I think I'm doing a pretty fine job.

Sweat

I feel like I've been sweaty all day.

This morning I took the girls to the library for story time. Despite the fact that we left in the 9AM hour, it was probably 800 degrees outside by the time we walked through the handicap entrance and were greeted with a flood of cold air conditioned air. Bless you, tax dollars, for keeping the library so cold.

The walk back was twice as hot because it was about 500 degrees warmer out and I had a little fireball wrapped to my body. And I was pushing 35 pounds of toddler, plus 35 pounds of library books. We stopped at the grocery store on the way home, just to load the stroller-turned-handcart up a little more.

After putting Ada to sleep I nursed Liv before her nap. (The smell—the mixture of sweat and breastmilk—took me right back to 651 N. 800 E. in Orem where I spent weeks upon weeks of frenzied nights trying to figure out how to use my body to sustain a human life. Nursing didn't come easily to Ada and I.) My shirt was still damp from our walk this morning as little Liv sucked away, doing what babies magically know how to do upon being born.

It was one of those increasingly rare long-nap days. Both girls were down for over 2 hours which is some sort of noteworthy miracle. Naturally, I painted for two full episodes of This American Life—the only way I keep track of time in the studio these days. I was sweating on the balcony as I worked, the occasional breeze felt like a gift every time it blew by.

Now baby 1 is awake, eating a balanced meal of snap peas and the last of my Cadburry mini eggs and baby 2 is stirring. I'm finally dry. But I've truly appreciated the work-like nature of my day so far. The literal sweat that has reminded me that life should be hard, but that its punctuated with enough gifts and breaks that make us think: This isn't so bad. In fact, I'm really enjoying it.

Bright and shiny happy formulas

I painted yesterday. Both girls were sleeping, Ada in her bed and Liv in her bassinet within arms reach. It was another "I got this" sort of afternoon. Until it wasn't, because those bright and shiny moments are fleeting—though somehow they sustain you through the longer darker ones.

Que fussing baby (what happened to my ever-so-placid babe?!) and a toddler who was so content gluing paper flowers on construction paper and talking about friends she's met once or probably won't ever see again that it sent her already guilt-prone mother into a guilt spiral. I felt guilty for not trying harder to expand her circle of friends here. I felt bad for missing out on opportunities she would have loved because they seemed too hard for me. I felt bad for Liv who is the current back-burner child that gets nursed on demand, but that's about it. And I felt lonely for the first time in a long while. And all of the sudden everything felt hard. Hard to get dinner on. Hard to pick up. Hard to get kids to bed. Hard to even think about facing another night that might be sleepless and difficult. (It was only a few nights before where all four of us were on the couch around 3 AM. Three of us were crying. I'll let you guess who the one holding it together was.)

But I guess this is what it takes to recognize the bright and shiny moments.

My best friend as told me about "happy formulas." Everyone's is different, but it's important to know yours and make it happen the best you can. I think all of us at our house are just reformulating right now. And I'm not worried. Things will work themselves out and everything will feel (relatively) smooth again. I'm beginning to understand what I need to be happy (and make everyone around me happy). Here's what I've got so far: I know it is at least one-part Haagan-Dazs Salted Caramel Truffle ice cream. See? On the right track already, right?

Accepting need

A week ago I would've told you that Mike had gotten Ada's bedtime routine down to a fine science. A book. A story. Turning on her favorite songs. He stays for one. Then he tells her he'll be right outside the door (and she repeats, "Daddy will be right outside the door" about 600 times while he says, "Yep, that's right, sweety" until he has closed the door behind him.

But lately she's been a bit more needy. And I've been a bit more tired. Which isn't exactly a winning combination.

Last night I tried the tried-and-true, almost too sterile approach. Book. Story. Song . . . but she seemed so scared that I was going someplace far away. Like she could sense my anxiety about getting her to bed and on with my night.

I paused outside her door as she cried in her room, and accepted that some nights your kid just needs you more than other nights, and tonight, my baby needed me.

I knelt by her bed and told her I wanted to talk about our day. I tried to pick out all the bright spots—the dinosaurs marching song during storytime at the library, eating a frosty on the deck at Grandma Colleen's house, jumping in the pool to Daddy—and forget all the screaming fits and embarrassing public meltdowns that filled up a majority of my day. As I mostly talked and she mostly listened, her eyes lit up and she would insert her variations on the day as we went. At one point she said, "Remember last week when we went to the doctors and she listened to the baby's heart and it went, 'Wha-oo-wha-oo-wha-oo' and you were a such a good girl at the doctors. And—" she paused and her dark eyes wide and serious, "you're going to be a big sister when Baby Liv comes so soon." She expressed several other sentiments regarding the baby, including the fact that the baby will give her Abby Cadabby when she comes (?).

I kissed her a thousand times before I skirted out of her room. And I left feeling lighter and less anxious and accepted that some nights a mom just needs her baby more than other nights.

To think of another

This is where I want to start:

For a solid two years my world has been wrapped up in Ada's. We first discovered Florence together. She was my travel companion to Verona. We've spent hours exploring, hours on a train, hours pounding out journeys by foot, just the two of us. And even though for most of it she has been too small to express a single thought, knowing she was there was my comfort, my constant. Ada is my everything.

And that is why it's so hard for me to think of another.

Before my ultrasound a few weeks ago, thoughts about a new baby swung from overwhelming worry about what two kids means physically—an frenetic ball of toddler and a needy swaddle of baby—to grief that the time I've had with Ada is almost over, and that I'll never be able to spend this kind of time with my next child. There was joy and mystery and excitement sneaking through the cracks like sunshine, but I wanted to feel light bursts of gladness and the sort of wrapped-up enthusiasm that came with the news about expecting Ada. What I felt was more heavy, more solemn.

Don't get me wrong. It all sounds so gloomy compressed into a paragraph. This baby is going to be a bright one. (Tangentially, I am a second daughter and am sure that the time I spent with my own mother was less than she was able to devote to a single child. I have no delusions about this, nor do I think it's sad like my imagination sometimes wants to picture it. It's just one of those many Facts of Life that stand like pillars holding up what's ours.)

On the drive home from the ultrasound appointment, I was washed with peace and calm. All the thoughts about being torn from diaper change to nursing session to meal prep to clean up to art projects to building blocks—and will I ever paint again?—melted with the knowledge that I was carrying a daughter. Two girls. Nothing more perfect. A sister. It was the first time during this pregnancy I've had near-tangible reassuring feelings that this is going to be our greatest blessing yet.

Many of my happiest thoughts about what this baby means come in terms of knowing that she'll be a sister, and that she'll have a sister, Ada Louise, who I rank as one of the best humans on the planet. I know this next daughter will be the same way. To know what joy my own sisters have brought me creates an unbounded thought of gratitude when I picture my own daughters as sisters.

I feel her often now. She kicks and moves and lets me know all the time that she's forming and growing and preparing.

I am too.

I have to ready my heart and trust that a cavernous space I didn't know will be filled and make me full.

2 Years-old

It's amazing to me that my baby is two. What's more amazing is that she won't be my baby come June. There will be a new little face around these parts (I still am having loads of trouble wrapping my mind around this). In fact, my heart at once bursts and breaks when I think that Ada won't be my only child soon. Is this normal? I'm such a swarm of conflicting feelings. On one hand I can't wait to add another little person to the mix. I can't wait to see Ada as a sibling. I can't wait to cuddle and new warm baby and introduce it to the wonders I've slowly discovered the last two years with Ada. On the other hand, the thought of dividing my time further, of spending even less with Ada and Mike and art is a complicating and conflicting thought.

But back to my darling Ada girl. She knows her ABC's and can almost count to 20 unassisted. She can sing all the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and knows several other tunes that she puts most of the words to (Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam, Stars Were Gleaming, Mary has a little Lamb, Row, Row, Row your Boat, Elmo's World Theme Song . . .) She describes things with several adjectives, "Ada wants her purple ciucio with tiny, purple stars." Literally. She has said this to me on several occasions. She speaks in third person 100% of the time and often narrates everything she's doing or experiences. She mimics nearly every word I say. She picks up quickly on emotions. She loves to draw and paint and can do it for several hours a day. She loves Elmo. She seems to prefer book stacking to book reading these days (but perhaps it's because she's tired of our selections at home. . .) She can build the train track by herself but gets frustrated easily when the pieces don't line up on the first try. She loves wearing dresses and necklaces and hats but also loves to run and jump and climb, throw balls and play at the park.

She is a completely different baby than she was when we moved out here in August. In fact, I don't think she's really a baby at all anymore. This growing up business is even harder to watch from the outside. She's more and more fun by the minute (and often more challenging) but the phases pass so quickly and she's shooting up like a weed I'm not sure how much more growing I can take.

Can't we just put things on hold for a bit? A little bit? Please?

Ada, I love you so much my insides turn to pieces. You are the brightest joy of my life. Happy 2nd Birthday, sweetie.

On self-raising

For a few reasons, I sometimes I feel like I'm raising myself. There are moments in nearly every day with Ada that mirror home videos from my childhood so closely it's hard not to wonder if my mind has made-up said videos and replaced my own little toe-headed-toddler self with Ada.

She colors for spans of time equal to toddler eternity (thirty, forty-five minutes?! She can't even watch Sesame Street for this long) and while she does she often sings to herself, or narrates her drawings. If she sees one of her "pretty dresses" she insists on putting it on right that instant and then proceeds to "spin like a princess" before moving on to adorning herself in every necklace I own. Her mind seems to constantly be humming, processing, sorting information. Perhaps all toddlers in general seem a bit preoccupied because their little brains are taking in so much each moment. She easily collapses in frustration when she can't communicate like she wants or the moment she feels itchy (sound familiar, Mom?)

But I also feel like I'm raising myself (or, really, continuing the work my parents started). Being a baby having babies, there is still lots of room for self-raising. When I see Ada's tantrums I get so self reflective ignoring her behavior—waiting out her storm—is easy. But it makes me realize I don't take a lot of things well either. Is mothering always like holding a mirror up to yourself every day? People always say they learn more by having kids than by being a kid. And it's true. Because you see so much of yourself in them, moments of intense examination come all-too often.

My abusive boyfriend-child

I had a friend tell me that toddlers are like abusive boyfriends and we are like their low self esteem girlfriends. "We keep coming back to them, love them more and more each time."

It makes me feel like a crazy woman sometimes. How is she at once so endearing and maddening?

This morning I was over-the-moon in love with her. She was shirtless, doing a veggie dance and taking laps around the kitchen while eating "pock-warm" (popcorn). She would pause about every 30 seconds and stand back from her whiteboard to exclaim, "Oh my goodness! Look at THAT!!" She sang, "And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went, Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary Mary went."

My heart couldn't take it.

*     *     *

In an obvious moment of deep contemplation Mike turned to me the other day and said, "Isn't it crazy that we have the capacity to create people we'll someday associate with?"

"Like, our children?" I had to clarify.

"Yeah. You know—don't have any friends? Have some babies."

So weird. Though it is becoming truer and truer. Ada is turning into my buddy.

*     *     *

Most buddies of mine, however, don't take dry erase marker and scribble up and down the length of their shins before coming in to ask for forgiveness and wipe. (See what I mean?! Abusive. But how could I not love her even more after her obvious try at rectification?) Or throw themselves to the ground and start writhing because I filled their cup with water rather that milk.

When I put her down for a nap  she looked up and apologized again. "Sorry, Mommy. No, no color on pants. Color on paper!"

What was going to be a reluctant, guilt-inducing, not-so-motherly, begrudgingly bestowed kiss turned into a shower of smooching. She hated it.

I love her for it.

my two loves at the park on my 60 degrees, sunny birthday

Loosen

I felt like a good mom today. Mike took the computer with him for the day, so I knew there could be no crutches (i.e. Elmo and Renee & Jeremy videos) used as distractions and time-buyers. I looked out the window. Fog. It looked cold even though the weather report said it would be in the 50's.

It had been months since I'd gone on a run. For me, usually the hardest part is getting out the door. In today's case, I had to change a tire on the stroller (my pseudo-fix from last Summer just isn't cutting it anymore). But I suited up, geared up, babied up, and out the door we went. I was so happy and it wasn't too cold.

When we got to the park I let Ada out of her stroller and we chased each other around the statue until the fluffiest white dog in the world bounded over and we let it lick our faces.

She wanted to jump in the puddles. Normally I groan a little inside thinking about the mud and the water, and the uncomfortable whiny baby that usually emerges from the the water. Maybe the run invigorated me. Or maybe I've been inspired enough by other women lately who let their kids lap up water from puddles and explore to their hearts content. Either way, in she went, hopping up and down the length of the shallow pool. After a few minutes she sat down in it, her fleece pants acting like sponges. I told her to stand up, she responded with a squawk, and I realized that the damage was already done.

So she sat in the water for a few minutes until every inch of her were soaked from the waist down.

After we was done I stripped her down to just her diaper and coat, put my sweatshirt on her—legs through the arm holes—and zipped her up tight in the stroller sleeping bag. We jogged home quickly, not stopping once on the way.

The morning set the tone for the rest of our near-perfect day.

Maybe I should loosen up a little.

In every heart, there is a room

Most of the trees are bare, acting has home to more squirrels than leaves, but there are still a good bunch holding on to their shaky leaves and keeping things feeling more like Fall and less like Winter here on Capitol Hill.

Ada and I spent a crisp morning at the park. It was deserted but for the leaf blowers and riding lawn mowers making more noise than clean spaces. We wandered around a bit, trying to find dogs to pet and tunnels to hide under while sharing crackers and kicking leaves. We ran for nearly a block, all the way to 11th street and then balanced on the edge of the sidewalk back towards 13th.

Having an empty playground meant that I got to chase Ada all over it. Up the stairs, down the slide. Up the ladder, down the ramp. We rode the springy bikes together and crawled under the slide.

I remember being pregnant with Ada and thinking, "Geez, I love this little human!" I had no idea just how completely she'd win me over. My friends have adorable kids, I've got World's Best nieces and nephews and cousins who are darling and charming and smart. But none of them are my Ada. My stubborn and feisty, independent but fiercely needy, assertive, curious, and endlessly entertaining Louise. I guess it's good we're hard-wired to adore our own. Otherwise the seemingly semi-hourly tantrums would probably push me to auction her off to the highest bidder. Not.

Becoming a mother made me realize that our hearts know so little of how much room there is inside. I didn't feel like room was made when I had Ada, but rather room I didn't know existed was filled.

An Ada update

I keep telling myself I need to write about my Ada girl but haven't made the time to do it in months. Like babies always do she's changing and growing and learning so rapidly that I'm already forgetting the sound of her saying, "Lo-fee" (lotion) or "Agn" (Ali) as she has replaced them with closer adaptations ("lo-she" and "A-wee"). She's needing to rely on me less and less and an interpreter, which is magical and heartbreaking all at once.

She knows about half of the letters in the alphabet and can sort of sing the alphabet song with me if we trade off lines. (I start off "A B C D" and she says, "E E E," "H I J K," "L me me me me," "Q R S," "T V V," "W X," "Z Z Z.""Now I know my," "A B Cs," "Next time won't you," "E E E".) Same thing—trading off numbers—goes with counting to 12, though for some reason 7 has recently reverted to a 4 . . .

She's still as active as ever. She'll often say ". . .Set, GO!" to herself and take off doing laps around the kitchen table. She climbs everything and has a proclivity for balancing on the edges of things and teetering while saying, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" She loves wrestling and chasing and getting tickled (Dad is the best at all of these).

She is still equally enthralled with cars and necklaces alike and loves to paint, draw and play with play dough. Some of her other fascinations include fans, water, mermaids, dogs, ties, and puzzles.

Most mornings she'll wake up and begin talking about various friends from church, "Eden is fun. Rupert is fun. Sasha is fun . . ." She's fairly outgoing, often walking up to strangers and giving them a love and a kiss (awkward alert). When riding our bike she likes to sing songs together and often initiates Freight Train  or You Are my Sunshine. I'll never tire of our bike rides.

She loves to be understood and often repeats phrases until I repeat them back, letting her know that I've understood. Some days I can't believe I understand my baby talking to me. When did she get big enough to form words and sentences and independent thoughts?

When it comes to sharing, she'll freely share with inanimate objects (cars, trees, strollers, lights) or things that couldn't be less interested (squirrels, birds flying 20 yards overhead, dogs we pass while riding our bikes), but with other kids—that's another story completely. Something to work hard at, I suppose.

Basically, Ada is a completely normal toddler doing very normal toddler things, but because she's mine I think she's just remarkable.

Womanly monotony

I've been painting quite a bit lately. At least a little each day, which is a real accomplishment some days. On one piece in particular (there are a few pictures of it in-progress on my Instagram feed @paigecanderson #thatyebenotdecieved), there are nearly 4,000 triangles. I've filled in over half of them, but as soon as they're all meticulously painted I'll brush over the whole of panel and attack the surface with a power sander.

It's always a scary moment—the jump into the dark; the one you know is coming (that you're bringing on yourself) but the unknowns still overwhelm you; the one right before a mass of paint covers up what took so many hours to do; right before a glaze covers things over; right before I sand everything away. Am I being dramatic?

There's a bit of exciting suspense in it all, too. Sometimes a glaze works, it urges colors to life, merges shapes into other forms, releases the painting from something too rigid and sterile to be emotive and gives it depth and richness. Other times, it dulls the whole surface, making it seem dead. And so I get to work reviving it, breathing color and structure back into it as I work the pattern up again (and again, and again). Each time some of the process remains, like a record that work happened and progress was made.

I'm always reassured by my process. As scary as the point before no return is, I'm find repose knowing that I have a process to regain whatever what was lost as my hand hums across the surface again.

It has memorized how to fill the triangle in just a few strokes. Down. Diagonal. Cross. Down. Diagonal. Cross. And in the monotony I find myself in quiet meditation, that tranquil spot that lives in me often when I'm working. Maybe it's why I paint, and why I get so anxious to get back after a long weekend or a busy few days.

I've started to find the same meditative powers in the repetitious activities I compulsorily complete each day. Folding a mountain of clothes. Wiping down the table. Changing a diaper. Putting on shoes. Filling up a sippy cup. My hands are memorizing these works too.

The whole process is making me feel so womanly.

(and now, for those of you who only check back here to see pictures of The Lou, here you are:)

Lincoln Park is so magical

The accomplice

We woke up this morning and ate chocolate chip cookies in bed. I thought, "This is a start to either a really great day, or a really terrible day." Sometimes it's hard to know.

By 9 The Lou was bathed and dressed and taking turns with Giraffey trying on various bowls for hats while I unloaded the dishwasher. As I was finishing up she ran off into another room. I closed the dishwasher, walked into the bedroom. No Ada. I peaked around to her side of the room. Again, no Ada. I went into the bathroom and there she was in the still-full bathtub (I think I have a serious personality defect where I forget to drain the tub nearly every time she bathes) completely dressed with Giraffey in the water sharing her ba-ba and brushing her teeth.

Some days it feels like Toddlerdom is kicking my butt.

A new language

I'm beginning to understand parenting park-speak. It's a way to talk indirectly to other parents by speaking through your children's hypothesized interactions.

Example 1: A muddy kid is scuffing around under the play ground. When the baby gets up, the dad, slightly embarassed by their dirty child to the sight of your clean (for once in her life) one, introduces his son to your daughter and says, "Say, 'Hi, my name is Max! I'm not usually this dirty.'"
 
I used the tactic yesterday when I sprayed bugspray on Ada's head, causing her hair to look much more like greasy spaghetti than fluffy-fine baby hair. "Say "Hi! I'm Ada. My hair usually isn't this greasy. My mom put bug spray in it cause the bugs like me." To which she responded, "Yesth! Yesth!" paired with several exaggerated nods. (Have I mentioned her new lisp?)

She's such a good sport.

To her, lest she forgets

taste testing the National Mall

My Little Louise,

It's been a while since I've written you. It's important to me to express you to in written words just how much you fill my heart so if you're ever in doubt years down the road, or you need an extra breeze in your sail, you can find certainty and gentle wind here.

I've looked at you often in the last few days bursting with emotion. I feel the world for you.

I have felt sad that you're not surrounded—nearly bombarded—with so, so many faces who love you, who play with you, who sing to you, who toss you up in the air just to hear your laughter. May you never forget that you are part of a strong family made up of many different parts woven tight to keep you safe and loved.

I have felt excited that you have so much in front of you. You've been around the world and back, and now we're on the other side of the continent you were born on making yet another new home. Your eyes are so wide. You learned the words "bus" and "ambulance" within days of arriving. We've already visited the zoo and a museum. You have made new friends and identified every hat-wearing person on the street with an excited, "HAT!" You're going to grow so much here. And what a great place to grow.

I have felt sorry for you. Always moving. Never settling down. I know just how worn out I get by all of it. I think it must take a toll on you too.

I have felt responsible for you. Not that I don't feel this way always, but I tend to feel an extra weight when we're far away from the village that raised me. I have to sing you all the songs, and read you all the books, and teach you all the things a toddler needs to know—like colors and shapes and animal sounds and when to be quiet and when to run fast. I have to dress you and arm you against the mosquitoes. I have to make sure you're fed and bathed and happy and feel safe. I'm your mama. It's my job, and I love it. It's just my job. (And your dad's). But sometimes the thought that the many hands that helped so much when we were in Utah are too far to reach out here makes me scared.

Above all, I have felt gratitude for you. You wake me each morning, punctuating the ends of all your words with a silly "sth" sound (why do you do this, by the way?). You love me and help me feel place. Not to mention that you truly are the best ambassador your dad and I have. We met dozens of people on Sunday because you wanted to make sure we knew they were wearing a "TIE!" or because they had a little one of their own. You make people laugh and smile. You were blessed once that your light-hearted personality would uplift others. I think you uplift others every day, especially your parents.

What would life be like without you, my Ada Lou?

I love you true.

Love,
your mama

Just as the darkness got very dark

She woke suddenly when the mower across the street roared to life. Usually she signals her rising with jabber and slow kicks in her crib. Today she sounded scared.

*    

When we got back from dinner group last night the house felt like the thermostat was turned to "Tropical." I opened her window and turned on the fan, hoping she could sleep in the sweltering heat.  Sleep seemed to have come quickly, but just as quickly morning came and with it the sounds of busy neighbors and fresh cut grass.

I picked her up. She alternated between cries, pointing, and her car-honk noise: bap bap!. I let her know everything was okay. We walked to the window and I pointed: it was just a lawn mower. See?

She didn't want to leave my lap for a few minutes so I grabbed one of our favorite books off the top shelf and began reading (reciting, really). I got emotional reading the last few pages.

The sun went down
beyond the river.
The sky grew wild and red
and the little fur child
turned around and 
ran for home.

And just as the darkness 
got very dark
he bumped into his big fur mother 
and she took her little fur child 
home in her arms

I sat there with my little child on my lap, wanting to hold her in my arms, willing her small again. It hit me like a bolt of thunder that I can't put the brakes on any of this. Not on her, not on me, not on the rushing roar of life that keeps tumbling us forward.

So we swim. And try to remember as much of the sweetness as we can and rely on the hope that there is more sweetness to come.

Everything looks better in a wetsuit

We're getting ready today to head out on a little river trip Saturday. We're leaving Ada with my mother-in-law overnight. She couldn't be in better hands, but I still feel nervous. I remember feeling the same way the first time a non-family member babysat her. Milestones I guess. Or loosening up.

We'll see if I'm actually able to enjoy myself. Not because I'll worry about Ada, but because I'm wearing a wetsuit which is possibly the most uncomfortable piece of swimwear ever invented. But the most flattering, right?

—

Don't forget to enter the giveaway before Wednesday, July 18th at 12:00 AM MDT (so it's basically like Tuesday night, right? Right)!

To make me happy

I think I add too many frills to what my dream life looks like, "A nursery!" I cry, "All I want is to decorate a nursery!" or "Living in one place for a whole year!!" or "A J.Crew shopping spree! I'm pretty sure I have to have one to be happy!"

Yesterday afternoon I got a taste of what living my dream really is: The summer air was breezing through the patio as I painted; Ada Lou skipped about my feet with sidewalk chalk in one hand and an orange Creamy in the other. She'd make semi-circular drawings on the sidewalk while I painted. By extending her little arm, crouched in a squat while rotating her frame, she would drag the chalk in short curved lines, and when satisfied, move to a new spot to make a similar pattern.

It's what I've always told Mike that I've wanted: to make art, side-by-side, with my kids. And it happened. If only for a few brief moments, it happened.

And I realized how little I truly need to make me happy.

The chase

Ada loves nothing more than being chased. She'll begin slowly up the stairs, turn and give me a come-get-me giggle, then snap forward and begin to sloppily shimmy up the stairs. If we're in the backyard and she finds my chasing lagging, she'll slow a little; wait for me to close the gap and make the game more exciting.

I thought about this this morning as I was on hands and knees pounding down the hallway in hot pursuit: we all like being chased.

*

It makes us feel desired, important, worthy of attention. Everyone wants—needs—to feel those things. That's why we're encouraged to keep dating our spouses. That's why we like holding out to hear just how many grad schools want us and what they'll offer to get us. And maybe that's why we'll slacken in our standards a bit—to feel that fire licking at our heels.

Maybe this is why it's sometimes hard to keep up our resolve to follow what we know in our heart to be true. The Great Master of the Universe is also the Great Respecter of Agency—never pushes or pulls. He merely waits, extends his hand and says "Come follow me."

More than once the thought has run through my mind: "If I'm so important to you, come and get me." But I've learned it just doesn't work that way. Maybe that's our role as humans helping each other. Maybe we're the ones that need to make one another feel that sense of chase, that sense of being worth someone's attention. (The ironic part of it all, is that the One who watches us most closely and is the most invested in us, is the same One who wouldn't step in to corral or corner or chase. Yet the fact remains: we're the most desired, important and worthy to Him.)

*

When I extend my hand to Ada she often flashes her playful grin and spins on her heel, commencing another round of Can't Catch Me. It makes me wonder how often I do the same. How often the thrill of the chase keeps me out of the comfort of following the Prince of Peace.